Midnight Hour

By Rachel M. Martens

"Midnight Hour" is a compilation of short horror fiction that explores different types of darkness with each tale coming to a consensus: darkness is a thread weaving throughout our lives that we cannot deny or escape. The 200-page volume includes a shudder-inducing haunted house tale, "The Wrought Iron Gate", a classic Gothic tale, "The Long Black Dress", a glimpse of modern horror in the novella "So Broken", and more.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 24, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543918991

Book preview

us.

The Wrought Iron Gate

Thwack! The blade of the ax slammed deep into the flesh of the log, the bark splintering outward from the wound.  Sydney Blake adjusted her grip on the handle and wrenched it free, then took another swing that split the log in two. 

Sydney!

Sydney rested the ax on the ground and watched Richard Crain, her grey-haired literary agent, approach across the yard.  As he walked, he brushed a falling leaf away from his starched suit.  Do you ever answer the phone, Syd?  Honestly, I thought you were dead up here alone.

Sydney wiped her brow and rolled her eyes.  Richard was the type that rarely got out of Manhattan, so her home in upstate New York seemed like the edge of the earth to him.  I’m fine, Richard, as usual.  Sorry I didn’t catch your call.  The cell reception here is crap and I spend a lot of time outside.

Richard surveyed the heavily wooded backyard with its impressive deck and seemingly endless flowerbeds and gardens, occupied most notably by a trio of massive rosebushes.  I guess I can understand that.  I suppose in that regard, this place has some appeal.  I’ve got a vacation away from your extended vacation, if you’re interested.

I’m listening.

Richard wandered to the nearest flowerbed, examining a hosta the size of a small dining table as he said, There’s a house in Bangor, Maine that I think you’d be interested in checking out.  We’ve gotten a few referrals saying it’s a real screamer.

Is there a body count?  Sydney narrowed her eyes.

He nodded.  What kind of agent would I be if I didn’t do my research?  It was built in 1856.  Since then, there have been 21 sinister fatalities and numerous others that seemed natural.  It’s been abandoned since the fifties, but there’s been a lot of trespassing, of course, that didn’t end well.  It has a reputation.

Sydney raised her eyebrows.  What kind of ‘didn’t end well’?

They came out in body bags, if at all.  Supposedly there were no bodies to find the last few times people disappeared there.  The cops came out empty-handed.

Sydney frowned and nodded pensively.  After a long moment, she said, Sounds like it has potential.  Have you been in contact with the…owner?  Caretaker?

Bank.  They’re willing to cooperate if you sign a waiver.  They don’t want to be liable if you’re hurt or killed.  Sydney nodded again and eyed her ax.  Richard added seriously, Syd, if it were me, I would let this one go.  I have other places that might be better options.  One of them is only two hours away in Vermont.  Whether you believe the bullshit you write about hauntings or not, there’s something seriously wrong with this house.

Sydney grinned crookedly and took up the ax again.  The grin hid something deeper that she refused to let Richard see.  No one alive knew her weakness, why she really published debunkings of haunted locations, and she was not about to let that change.  That’s why I do this job, she said.  To find places that are seriously wrong.

–––

Sydney had been to Maine a few times investigating haunted houses and had always liked it.  It was quiet and even the larger cities like Bangor were not really urban.  Nature ruled the land.  It had been allowed freedom in most of the state, maintaining forests that were centuries old, and it showed its power in the ocean beating against the coast and the snow and fog that ruled the air.  The last time Sydney had visited Bangor she’d spent most of her time in Mount Hope Cemetery, but this time the house was in the center of town.

Before she even checked into her hotel, she stopped at the house to check it out.  1366 Cumberland Street was surrounded by a tall wrought iron fence with a wide gate in the front, the only way in or out.  The gate was built of black wrought iron bent into intricate curves around heavy bars and reaching seven feet to end in long, sharp points that stabbed at the sky.  It was held shut by three intertwining lengths of chain, each as thick as Sydney’s wrist and held fast by a steel padlock.  Talk about paranoid, Sydney muttered to herself, eyeing the three locks.  Thick, overgrown gardens filled the lot, hanging over the path from the gate to the front porch.  Because of the gardens, Sydney’s view of the house itself was restricted to what she could see through the gate: a leaning front porch that had been in need of repair for fifty years, a large front door with its black paint peeling, and a broken window peering into darkness.  The siding was probably green at a time, but it had faded to an antique white now.  Sydney shrugged to herself and pulled out her Nikon to take a couple shots of the front porch through the gate. 

She stowed her camera and threw her duffel bag over her shoulder again, walking back towards Broadway and her hotel.  It was when she was a few blocks down Broadway that she noticed the number of pedestrians out and about.  It was a cool August day and people were taking advantage of the mild weather.  But, though she had been standing at the gate of 1366 Cumberland for at least half an hour, she hadn’t noticed anyone walking past her there.

At the hotel that night, she sat cross-legged on the bed with her laptop close at hand and background research strewn across the mattress.  The bank had sent her a floorplan and records of the title-owners of the house since it was built, as well as some newspaper clippings related to the house from the Bangor Historical Society.  A penciled note on the floorplan told her that a man named Cecil Bline would be meeting her at the house tomorrow to unlock everything.  The floorplan was complex; 1366 Cumberland had three floors plus a cellar and contained thirteen rooms connected by winding hallways.  The third floor had a small octagonal room in the southern corner that for some reason made Sydney’s stomach twist uncomfortably.  She packed the floorplan away.

The death count was another matter.  Over the years, various members of the historical society had catalogued the deaths that took place on the property.  Most of them were either accidents or illness-related, but not by a large margin.  There had also been three murders, seven suicides, and eleven deaths that Sydney determined to be deaths by illness or accident that seemed sinister.  And then there were the unaccounted-for bodies.  In 1993, three ghost hunters had gone in and the officers who went in to search of them two days later left the house empty-handed.  Those three people and the two groups of teenagers that disappeared after them were never found and, though the police continued to search for leads and considered them missing rather than dead, there had been no progress in the investigations.

She took down notes on some of the more notorious deaths in the house; those would be important in any articles she could produce from this trip, maybe even a full-length book.  There seemed to be a lot of suicides resulting from people jumping or falling from the windows of the octagonal room, which the newspaper clippings referred to as the tower room, including an eight-year-old girl in 1897.  There was a black and white photo of the girl, who had dark hair pulled into pigtails and a bright sparkle in her doe-like eyes.

But Sydney had been to dozens of haunted houses before, some of them with body counts almost as high as 1366 Cumberland, and they were always shams.  The only thing people did after death was rot.  They didn’t hang around holding grudges or communing with people through Ouija boards.

At around one in the morning, Sydney gathered her research together into a battered tote bag for the next day and shut off the lights.  She slept deeply and peacefully.

–––-

Cecil was about thirty years older than Sydney had expected.  His knotty hands shook as he struggled to open the padlocks on the massive wrought iron gate at 1366 Cumberland and he seemed to lean slightly to the left, as if he normally used a cane and had left it at home that day.  His thin white hair blew freely in the fierce wind and when he spoke, his voice was a croak.  Once I open this gate, you’re on your own, he said anxiously, sneaking quick glances at the house every now and then.

Sydney nodded.  That’s fine, I understand.

He looked sideways at her as the first padlock came loose.  The gate seemed to shudder, but surely it was just the chains shifting.  Do you?

She didn’t answer, just tightened her grip on her tote bag.  She hated it when people, especially men, told her she didn’t understand something. 

I’ll be back to lock up tonight at eight unless I get a call from you, Cecil rasped.  The second padlock came undone and once more, the gate seemed to shudder a little.  Keep an eye on the clock.  I won’t come back to unlock it again.  Won’t go near this place after dark.  You need the gate opened later…well, you’ll just have to survive ‘til morning.

She was wondering if he meant that last bit sarcastically or seriously when the third padlock came undone.  All the chains slid free at once and dragged down the iron bars to the pavement with a scraping noise.  It was like the cry of a dying animal.  Why not just give me the keys for the night? she asked, her face scrunched against the awful sound.

Cecil looked at her, measuring her with his eyes.  Girl, these keys have been my charge for more years than I can remember and I’ve used them to open this gate for too many people that didn’t come back out.  I need to know for sure that this gate is locked overnight so no one else gets in.  ‘Cause if they do, their blood is on my hands.

She narrowed her eyes.  "And if you lock me in overnight, my blood isn’t on your hands?"

That’s what you signed the waiver for, he said grimly, stuffing the keys and his shaky hands into his pockets.  If you think you can handle yourself, I won’t stop you.  But I won’t go to the Almighty responsible for you too.  I’ve got enough to atone for.

Sydney tipped her head as she watched him shuffle away down the street.  While she enjoyed her time in upstate New York, she had to admit that some people needed to get out into the world a little bit.  Too much quiet time did strange things to your mind.  After a moment more of thought, she turned back towards the gate.

It was wide open.

Sydney frowned and stared through the yawning gate at the shadowed path and the front porch beyond.  Blinking, she searched for the chains and found them coiled neatly beside the right door of the gate.  Cecil hadn’t opened the gate, though, or even removed the chains.  They had still been in a pile at the bottom of the gate.  She reached out and tested one of the doors.  It creaked loud enough to make her wince, as if the locals had been too afraid to even oil the hinges in fifty years.  She tilted her head in puzzlement and the first hint of foreboding she’d felt in ten years slowly dripped through her veins.

She shook herself.  She must not have been paying attention when Cecil opened the gate because she had been annoyed with him and his superstitions.  She shoved the strange occurrence to the back of her mind and stepped through the gate. 

The shrubs and trees of the garden had grown high enough that the path was completely shaded and as Sydney walked towards the front porch, she felt a slight chill.  When she reached the porch, she got a better view of the face of the house.  There were only a few broken windows set at odd intervals in the wall.  The tower rose from the south corner on her left, its precipice hidden beyond the trees and the roof of the porch.  She tested the first step gingerly and it groaned like an old man, but did not cave in.  Cautiously, she climbed the steps and approached the front door, the entire porch shifting beneath her weight.  The front door was unlocked but warped and she had to struggle to push it open.

The entryway was dark, but amongst the shadows and heavy cobwebs she could make out the spiral staircase and the mouths of the two first floor hallways.  Sydney drew her camera and smartphone from her tote and turned on her flashlight app.

The house was filthy.  She left footprints on the dusty floor everywhere she walked, trash was piled in the corners of the rooms, the walls had been painted with graffiti, and what little furniture remained had been either smashed or cut to pieces.  The divan in the parlor looked like it had been red or pink once, but now it was faded and dusty.  Sets of heavy green curtains hung in tatters over the parlor and formal dining room windows.  The cupboards in the kitchen had been smashed in.  It seemed like every window was shattered.  Good lord, Sydney said as she kicked an empty can of spray paint from her path.  When she showed Richard these pictures, he would think she’d been to a crack house in Detroit rather than a haunted manor in Bangor.

The fixtures in the bathroom were intact, but they were covered in rust and mold.  A dead rat lay in the tub, mostly decomposed, and it didn’t seem to be the sole source of the foul stench trapped in the tiny room.  The unappetizing stains on the outside of the toilet bowl hinted that the sewage had backed up at some point before the bank shut off the water and Sydney quickly vacated the room. 

The cellar was completely empty, save the utilities and some serious cobwebs.  Some of the less reputable newspaper clippings she had been given had claimed that there was a portal to Hell in the cellar somewhere, but there seemed to be no evidence of that.  Portal to Hell, my ass, Sydney groaned.  The closest thing to Hell in this place is the bathroom.

A sharp hiss made her jump and spin towards the source of the sound.  Right in front of the boiler sat a large white cat.  Its fur was stained by dust and soot and hideously matted and its bright yellow eyes looked sickly.  It hissed again, showing off its sharp front teeth and a malicious scowl.

Jeez.  Sydney rolled her eyes, then crouched down, reaching out towards the cat.  Come here, kitty.  You don’t belong in here.

The cat arched its back and issued an eerie yowling sound.  Sydney jumped upright again, with the words neither do you dancing in her head.  She blinked in confusion and when she peered into the darkness again, the cat had gone.

Goosebumps pickled her arms and she gritted her teeth.  Fine.  Nasty beast, she muttered.  At least she knew why she hadn’t seen any of those missing bodies yet; the cat had probably spent the last ten years eating them.

It was as she was going back up the stairs that she realized a cat couldn’t eat the bones.  The thought made her pause, disturbed, but she shook it off immediately.  Those people had probably just skipped town without anyone realizing.  There wasn’t anything more sinister about this house than its structural integrity, certainly nothing supernatural.

With the cellar and first floor already clear, she followed the strange corridors back to the spiral staircase and climbed.  The second floor looked no different than the first except that there were fewer articles of abandoned furniture.  There were also fewer swear words and crude drawings spray-painted on the walls, as if the local troubled teens had not bothered to venture that far to take out their frustrations.  As she followed the corridor around to the next staircase, Sydney took care to check every closet just in case, but there was still no sign of human remains.

Plenty of rat remains, though, she said in disgust after shutting a particularly messy closet.  She approached the narrow stairwell and peered up into it.  Darkness greeted her.

Sydney’s brow creased in confusion.  She was sure she had seen third floor windows from the outside of the house.  How could it be that dark up there?  Something like frozen spiders crept down her neck and back and she shuddered without knowing why.  It was irrational, she knew, but that did not make her feel any less unsettled.  The last time she had felt that chill, she had been at the funeral back in Rapid City.

Greg?

She threw off the memory.  This was no time to get cold feet or let her past get the better of her.  How many houses had she gotten through without getting nervous?  Without fear?  How many times had she dispelled her doubt?  This house was no different.

Without another thought of Greg or any other things from beyond the grave, Sydney shone her flashlight app up the stairwell and climbed it.  As she ascended, the air grew weighty and damp, as if she were actually descending into the cellar or even deeper.  Maybe the upstairs windows had somehow remained intact, preventing air circulation.  As she stepped onto the landing, which made a quiet but mind-tearing screech with each shift of her weight, the earthy taste of the air pressed on her lungs and she paused a moment to cough.  Her stomach tightened with discomfort and an anxiety she refused to acknowledge.  A little mustiness never killed anybody.

Creeeeeak.

Sydney spun towards the source of the sound, but there was nothing and no one to see.  It seemed to have come from the door at the far end of the hallway, but it, along with each of the three other doors, was shut tight.  Her eyes narrowed as she felt her heart beat against her ribs.  There was nothing there, there was never anything there, but for some reason this house had her jumpy.  She was being weak and stupid.  Time to stop letting it get the better of her and move on.  There were no ghosts or anything else.  The dead didn’t have the presence of mind to hold grudges.

She turned her back on the door and approached the one nearest to the narrow landing.  The doorknob was cold, but turned easily and the door opened before her.  The room was dark with the only window cloaked in a heavy curtain, and small enough that her flashlight app illuminated the whole space.  There was no closet, but a six-drawer dresser stood against one wall, a rocking chair reclined in the corner near the window, and half a dozen or so faded paintings leaned against the near wall.  Nothing suspicious here.  She took a few pictures of the room from the doorway, then entered it to get another angle from beside the rocking chair.  She lifted her Nikon and peered through it.

Cre-eak.

Sydney jumped and shuffled to the side, staring down at